Harmony In Flesh and Black (27 page)

“Of course,” said Fred.

“And your plan is…?”

“I felt a responsible person might wish to take action, and the first responsible person I thought of was yourself.”

“I see,” the man said. “You know who you are talking to?”

“Not necessary,” Fred said. “But I started to wonder where your money might be, and it occurred to me—pardon me, wait a minute.”

He was being confronted by the mechanic, who was standing outside the glass door, gesturing. Fred understood the old man's gestures to mean that he wanted to come in and use the men's room, which you could only get to through the office. Fred made a gesture back that meant, Use the bushes, for God's sake. We're in the middle of the countryside.

“Sorry,” Fred said. “Where was I?”

“It occurred to you…”

“Not to beat around the bush,” Fred said. “Mangan seems stupid enough to try something. Smykal had thirty-some thousand from my guy, and Mangan was carrying twenty-five more of yours—that's enough to play games for. Not that it's my business.”

“Mangan was stupid enough to lie to me about Smykal,” the man said. “Maybe I'll ask him about the money.”

There was a pause, a long pause, about five minutes' worth. The hawk circled slowly beyond where Fred could see it. Ten minutes. Champ, in the Rolls, had his clipper out again. He was doing his nails, holding his hands out the window so the clippings would fall outside and not mess up the upholstery.

The voice of Providence came on again. “Please keep the check.”

Fred put the check back in his pocket. “And the letter?” he asked.

“The letter will be delivered to you at your hotel in the morning.”

“I have left the hotel,” Fred said.

“I can't change the arrangements now. What will happen is this: a messenger will come to find you tomorrow morning in the dining room of the Charles Hotel. That's the deal. He'll be there at eight-thirty. A waiter will page you.”

“I'll be there,” Fred said.

“The film,” the man continued evenly, his voice conveying no pressure, only mild, comfortable persuasion. “Have you thought what to do next about the film? I presume you have taken precautions should anything, God forbid, occur on the highway?”

“I am aware of my mortality,” Fred said. “I, like you, prefer things simple.”

“Not only your mortality, but that of your loved ones also,” the voice said. “Suppose I assure you that as a person of responsibility, I will see that the issues raised by the film, and associated with it, are efficiently dealt with? They will be, in good time.”

“That makes sense to me,” Fred said.

“The film, then?”

“Will not be permitted to embarrass you.”

“We understand each other. You realize you have only my word on my part of the arrangement?”

“You have my word also,” Fred said. “It's as good as yours.”

“Please have my nephew take the phone again.”

“The one with the Silver Spur and the nail clipper, or the guy who runs the store?”

“We were getting along so well. Don't ruin it by being funny.”

Fred went to the door and beckoned the nephew to come in out of the Rolls. He walked back to his car, stopping to use the bushes himself on the way. The hawk circled back into view, patient.

Russ, still curled in the backseat when Fred got to the car, slept all the way back to Cambridge.

*   *   *

Fred left Russ in Sheila's apartment, still curled up, sleeping on the futon. Fred had half carried him upstairs.

Fred pulled Sheila out into the stairwell after him. “Let me talk with you a minute, Sheila,” he said. “Russell had a bad time.”

Sheila looked him over speculatively, nodded, and answered, “I see that.” She had let them into the apartment, wearing a Georgetown sweatshirt, her legs bare.

“People connected to the tape you gave me had him. They kidnapped him, threatened him.”

Sheila nodded again, her eyes interested. “That was fast. How much did you get?” she asked.

“Just Russ,” Fred said.

“Shit, that isn't much.”

“I have to agree with you.”

“How do I know you're not cheating me?” Sheila said.

“You don't,” Fred told her. “About Russ: it's going to be hard for him when he wakes. If you're at all a friend of his, I wouldn't leave him alone for a while.”

Sheila clasped her hands, thinking.

“He's not all that much to me,” she said. “I mean to say, who needs him? Everyone's an island, you know?” She pulled the sweatshirt down, noticing the chill breeze on her legs, standing out in the hall. Fred started down the stairs.

“I've decided I'll work with you after all,” Sheila said. “I like your style.”

“Maybe I'll call you,” Fred said.

“What are you doing with my film?” Sheila asked.

“I'm doing a Rose Mary Woods on it,” he said.

“A what?”

“I'm going to just chuck it.”

*   *   *

As soon as he left the apartment on Pearl Street, Fred felt the Heade rush in. He was tired. Tomorrow was the big day, the auction. He'd have to get Clayton on the phone and start laying out their tactics. After the sale was over, however things turned out, he thought, maybe he'd take a few days off—except he'd prefer to go somewhere with Molly, and she wouldn't leave the kids. They had school. So maybe he'd go somewhere on Sunday with the kids and Molly, like a family. It wouldn't be a rest, but it would put him back on track toward his main objective.

He sat in the car on Pearl Street, thinking there was something he should do before he drove to Arlington. Yes, he'd left that tape at the Charles, the backup. He shouldn't let it sit there. His bag with his clothes was there, too.

Boston's rush hour was starting to spill over into Cambridge. It was after six. Fred found a meter open in the garage across from the hotel, noticed a flower store, and bought a big bunch of irises to give Molly. Fred liked irises. They wouldn't last. He got a bunch of daisies, too, which Molly liked and which would last. He put them in the car, then thought to himself, You've been away, you're bringing back a present for the mom, what about the kids?

The kids liked chocolate. He bought a box for them and put it in the car, then bought another so each could have one.

He went in and picked up his bag, then headed to the desk and asked for his package. The woman behind the desk gave it to him, along with a couple of message slips.

“She called twice,” the woman said. Fred looked at her. She had red hair in curls as big as fists. She was middle-aged, plump, and brimming with excitement. “Ophelia Finger. We're not supposed to notice, but is it
the
Ophelia Finger? She wants to see you? Here?”

“Yes,” said Fred.

“She's meant so much to me,” the woman said, beaming. “Her book? Her show? Everything?”

“She wants to meet me for breakfast tomorrow,” Fred said, looking at the messages.

“I know,” the hostess said. The tag she wore indicated her name was Fran. “We're not supposed to read the messages, but I was excited. See, on account of Ophelia Finger I have all my self-confidence. You know? ‘Learn to love the body you have'? I did it, and it works! Now I have this new job and everything?”

Poor Fran. She wasn't going to last long at the Charles.

“Glamorous people come through all the time,” Fran went on. “You have to be on your toes because they don't always look glamorous. Like yesterday, I caught Harriet Voyt? Her you don't mistake, a beautiful woman like that. I got her autograph. But imagine Ophelia Finger! If she's here when I'm on in the morning, will you ask her to sign my book?”

“Sure,” said Fred. He turned away and started moving, noticing someone who looked like management approaching Fran at a good clip.

He crossed the lobby to a pay telephone and called Molly to tell her he was running late.

She sounded glad to hear his voice. “How'd it go, hon?”

“It's going to fly,” Fred said. “Most of it is worked out. I got Russ back. You don't have to worry about me. I got Clay's money back. The extra money. The ransom.”

“Fred, that's terrific!”

“I guess so.” Fred looked out across the lobby at the excellent outfits walking their people around.

“You don't sound terrific.”

“Maybe I'm letting down,” Fred said.

“Come let down in Arlington,” Molly suggested. “Terry's got a game. She'll be finished around eight. I told the kids we'd have dinner together if you were back. What do you want, send out for pizza, or get barbecue, or bring back fish and chips?”

“I don't know,” said Fred. “Which would you like? What would the kids prefer?”

“They want you to decide,” Molly said.

“Let's sit in the kitchen and throw fish and chips.”

“You're on. I'm going with Sam and pick up Terry's game. You want to meet us at the park?”

“You're on.”

He called Clay, to have this business finished. Clay was about to go downstairs for kir and dinner with Marcel Proust.

“I can barely concentrate,” he said. “It's not like me. The stakes have never been so high. I feel as if I have been chosen to rescue a hostage.”

“We
have
rescued a hostage,” Fred said.

“My dear man. Concentrate. The auction is not until tomorrow. In fact there is not one hostage, but two: the lovers. They have been imprisoned for almost a century.”

Oh, the Vermeer. Clay was talking about the painting, the one that might exist behind the other painting of haystacks. Clay was not ever going to know what it was like to be imprisoned, and there was nothing to do about that but forgive it.

“And were you successful in your mission?” he asked at last.

“Some snags,” Fred said. “I've been promised I'll have the letter in the morning.”

“I still say it is highway robbery,” Clayton said, impatient to get on with his evening. “I must say, after all I've”—he corrected himself—“after all
we've
been through, I do resent the delay.”

“I do, too,” Fred said. “But I think the man will do what he says.”

“A good idea is to trust no one, but if you're confident…,” said Clay.

“Clay, I still have your check. He wouldn't take your money.”

“Well done, Fred.” Clay was showing real enthusiasm for the first time. “That gives me a pinch of extra muscle on the Heade.”

“Right,” Fred said.

“Tell me tomorrow how you made him see reason.”

“Right.”

“Telephone when you have the letter, in the morning. Telephone or come by. We need to plan our strategy for the main assault.”

“Talk to you tomorrow,” Fred said. “Bon appétit.”

32

The lights were on over the field in Arlington, making a warm yellow pool in the just-beginning dusk. The children were scattered around the field, and Terry was pitching.

Fred found Molly and Sam sitting on the damp concrete bleachers, eating peanuts out of a bag. Fred put a kiss on Molly's cheek. He bopped Sam on the head. Sam, sitting on Molly's left, slid over to make a space for him.

“Stay where you are. Plenty of room,” Fred said. He walked across Molly's feet, knees, and lap, sat down on her right, and put his left arm around her. He'd left Molly's flowers in the car for later, and Terry's chocolates, but he gave Sam his now.

“Yo,” Molly said, flinching. “You're bringing your gun to a Little League game?”

Used to it already, he'd forgotten about the gun. He'd forgotten, for a moment, that he was dangerous.

“I can blow away the opposition for Terry if things get out of hand,” Fred said.

“We're leading fifteen to three,” Molly said as Terry slid an accidental curveball high and wide and the opposition batter chased it.

“That's good,” Fred said. “I like to see her using that curve.”

“Strike three,” said Sam. “You know it's not on purpose. Fred, can I see your gun?” He leaned toward Fred across Molly.

Fred looked at Molly.

“Later,” Molly said.

Terry's team was streaming off the field.

“Is the game finished already?” Fred asked.

“Top of the third inning,” Molly muttered, shifting her backside on the concrete.

“Finished or starting?”

“Starting,” Molly said. “And I always forget to bring a cushion.”

*   *   *

Fred didn't want to bring the gun into the house with the fish and chips.

“I'll keep it in the car,” he said.

“I'd rather have you tell the kids about it,” Molly said. “Since it came up.”

After they ate, Fred took the thing out, unloaded it, took it apart, showed them how it worked, let them handle it unloaded, and told them he was going to put it back in the car—unloaded—and he didn't want them to touch it again.

“What it does is kill people,” he said.

“Has it killed people?” Terry asked.

“Did you kill someone with it?” Sam asked him.

“Other people had it before I did,” Fred told him. Sam nodded, that answer enough for him.

“How did the Spanish go?” Fred asked, getting up from the table.

“I got better than half,” Sam said tentatively.

“We'll have to work on that,” Fred said. “Can you kids get this fishy trash outside in the barrels while I put the gun in my car?”

He put it under the driver's seat. He'd have to hold on to it until he saw how things worked out tomorrow morning. Maybe he'd keep it through the afternoon, pull it out at Doolan's when the Heade came up, and see if anyone offered a stronger bid.

The kids were packed off to bed. Molly pretended to wash dishes, but they hadn't used any dishes, just forks and the glasses for Coke and beer.